Whiskey Works Wonders
by ktfoo
Summary: Ten things Butch learned from his Mama about how to survive in a world that doesn't want you to. Originally for kmeme, like, years ago.


Butch smiled, twirling a screwdriver between his fingers. He had his mother to thank for tonight's whiskey. Without her, he would never have learned to force locks, which was invaluable for stealing other people's money. And, you know, doing nice things too. But mostly stealing money.

He always thought about her when he drank. It was for more than the obvious reasons, too. Butch was a softie on the inside. He'd stab anyone who said it, but he could admit it to himself when he ordered his mama's favorite.

He'd also learned a bunch of other ridiculous things from her. Like sewing. "What kind of boy sews, ma?" he'd ask her, and she'd answer, "My boy." Someone had to customize all of those Tunnel Snakes jackets, though, and his mom wasn't doing it alone. Later it had come in all kinds of useful, though. He'd mended their packs and clothes more times than he could remember, while Jamie cleaned the guns. He'd always asked her to switch places with him—said sewing was her job, because she was the girl.

Jamie always laughed at him. "Someone's gotta feed us, and so far it isn't you. That makes me the one wearing the pants, twinkle-toes."

He'd sewed her back together more than once, too. Neither of them had ever been careful enough in a fight.

When Jamie stayed up staring blankly at their campfire or her jukebox, it was Butch that put her to sleep. Same way his mama had done for him. He made her lay down and stroked her hair until her eyes closed. Some nights took longer than others, but it always worked eventually. During the mornings after, Jamie's circles wouldn't be so dark, and Butch felt a little better about himself. Jamie would also insult him less. The two were probably related.

From somewhere behind him, Butch heard a long chain of curse words. He chortled. His mama could beat that language on a sober night. All of his best curses came from her. He'd been beaten the first time Mama heard him call Jamie an "ass-licking stupid crotch-rotted bitch." That was Mama—always with the do as I say, but not the way I say it.

The cursing in the bar grew to a fight. It took Butch back to his first fight with Jamie—which had, admittedly, begun as a bar fight. Stumbling out, he'd screamed at her all the way back to their Megaton home. He didn't want to reveal how much it scared him, how he just wanted to check her for injuries—so he berated her for picking fights with suited men, for landing in this dump, for bringing them outside in the first place. He expected Jamie to fight back. Jamie always fought back.

This time, she didn't. Butch fought just as dirty as Mama when he wanted to. He'd learned from the best. He attacked her weakest point—the places he knew she was already frightened and self-conscious of. She'd broken down into tears and locked him out of her ramshackle house.

The next morning, he'd had to utilize another skill picked up from his mother—apologizing. She had always been able to talk forgiveness out of anyone, and he had paid attention. He begged. He blamed the liquor. He almost cried, and eventually, Jamie let him back in the house.

That didn't stop him from breaking his promises or never hurting her again. True to his heritage, Butch was a repeat offender at heart.

Thinking about Jamie, his little not-so-lone wanderer, was getting him weepy. He never was good at the controlling-emotions thing, even sober, and the alcohol was making his eyes mist and memories wander through his head unbidden.

He thought about their first time. With, you know… it.

They were beneath a crumbling overpass, camping out to hide from some mirelurks. After more than an hour of not breathing or moving, pressed against each other in a crevice, Butch had finally whispered, "I think we're safe now."

Jamie had suddenly pulled his face to hers and said, harshly, "I don't want to die a virgin."

Butch learned that night that his mother's repeated escapades with the Vault's men had taught him more than just how to appear invisible: he knew how to fuck. Making Jamie scream nearly got them eaten by mirelurks—again—but god, it had been worth it.

Of course, he hadn't been there for her in the end. Not when it mattered. The Enclave appeared, and he went invisible, just like his mama taught him. In a corner, in a shadow, he watched them carry her off.

It twisted his gut, but he stayed hidden.

He tried to go after her, but didn't make it until long after Jamie had blown the Enclave sky-high. So Butch backtracked, finding his way to the one place he knew she'd come to eventually: the Purifier.

He was too late. She'd pulled the hero card, just like he always knew she would, and she never woke up.

His mama was, at her core, a survivor. She hated the Vault, and was hated by the Vault, but she never gave in. She kept living off whatever she could. She kept going. Always.

Butch had picked that up from her. He knew how to survive, even when there was nothing left for him in life. So here he was, in an unnamed bar somewhere in the Wasteland, drinking Mama's favorite.

That was the most lasting thing Mama had taught him. When you can't outrun the pain, you can at least numb it down. Whiskey works wonders.

Butch took a silent toast to the two women of his life, and downed his glass.


End file.
